


puttin' on a play

by SeeCee



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types
Genre: Boarding School, Crossdressing, M/M, POV Outsider, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-03
Updated: 2017-06-03
Packaged: 2018-11-08 12:21:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11081499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeeCee/pseuds/SeeCee
Summary: Peter is the lead in his school's drama and who could better play his love interest than Edmund, his shy, unremarkable, little brother?





	puttin' on a play

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GitaLKimFinite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GitaLKimFinite/gifts).



> So I know you only wanted a small oneshot and I don't know what happened? Hopefully, you like it anyway!

Nick Hemperton had written plays since he was four years old. Back then they'd mainly featured disinherited princes, who slay monsters, rescue the princess and are welcomed back into their father's arms after years of estrangement. The princess and him would marry, there would be a big feast and – since his grandmother was German - if they didn't die, they still live today.

Nowadays, Nick writes... well, still the same stories. His vocabulary has grown and he's cultivated a sense for pacing and structure but otherwise... Oh yes, also: His very first play will soon be put on!

Hopefully, anyway. A prospect that steadily dwindles because for some inane reason they could not find the right fit to play the part of the maiden. And it's not because he's in a school full of boys with underdeveloped Oedipal complexes, no, it is a much more simplistic difficulty: The person playing the prince is too good.

Peter Pevensie, a senior from Mr. Martin's class, is a natural on the stage. He occupies spaces demandingly, pulls the spotlight and attention onto him effortlessly, is eloquent and charming despite his imposing airs, he- well, he makes everyone else look bland next to him. Which works wonderfully with the extras and minors but leaves director and script writer at their wit's end because neither play nor story can be pulled off to its full effect with a dull, boring princess opposite that shining gloriousness that is Peter Pevensie. It'll look like a joke. A damn travesty. And Nick Hemperton refuses to let his first drama be mutilated into an involuntary comedy. He won't stand for it. If necessary he'll rewrite the script another fifteen times or, God forbid, don the garbs himself. Imagining his stocky frame and grandfather glasses with a train and tiara, he pulls a face. Maybe, add a bit of paint to the cheeks and eyes, something on the lips perhaps... then the final scene, puckered lips nearing those of Peter Pevensie... with two loud smacks his palms smash into his own face.

Concentrate on your writing, Hemperton you silly school girl! Shuffling a bit around in an effort to get more comfortable, Nick leafs through the pages until he gets to the already heavily revised scene of first meeting between Prince and Princess (formerly cook's daughter, except Mulvey is too well bred to play something so beneath him...)

Cluttered around him are old, new, and unfinished stage props, here and there a crew member strides past and voices shout instructions. But the rehearsal finished fifteen minutes ago and most of the others already left. Nick, in desperation as much as in habit, had climbed up into a hollow papier-mâché tree, where he can write undisturbed and disguised from sight. The tree is one of those props that have always been in the auditorium and played some sort of part in every play. Nick feels a special connection to Alma – named after the dubious fact that she may once was supposed to depict an elm tree - since he spent a couple of hours every week in her pretty much since his third week at this school. He began and finished many, many adventures, fables, and romances here. They'll all be graduating in four months and that would be it then. Wistfully, he strokes along one of the long discoloured branches.

Then Peter and Alan, the director, a senior from Mr. Harris' class, walk along, animatedly discussing something.

“No, I absolutely do not want you to hold back, Peter. Don't be daft. The play isn't gonna be saved by two dull leads!”

“I understand but- “

“Somewhere in this school,” Alan continues unbothered, “Is the perfect fit to your part, I'll just have to find him!”

“Sure, but- “

“You just focus on learning your lines and leave the rest to me. I'll find the right cheese to lure our perfect mouse!”

With that he thumps Peter on the back and strides off determinedly. Peter looks after him with a defeated sigh. Then his eyes land on the armour's cabinet and he pulls the King's sword from it. He turns it slowly from side to side, lets the handle jump in his palm. He inspects it, gets accustomed to its weight. Then he grips it tighter, widens his stance and, with three quick stabs, slashes through an imaginary opponent. And there it is; that posture, that expression, this unquestionable respect it demands from others was the precise reason Nick and Alan had begged two long weeks for Peter Pevensie to take on the part of the lead. He will also be the reason why every kind of mangled script will still end up a success. Now, if only they could find someone on par with Peter's magnificence, someone a bit juxtaposed, who opposes him enough to make a gripping dynamic while still being sufficiently complementary that audiences can't help but crave for them to be together. Again, Nick sighs. If only.

Peter is now engaged with a swinging routine that seems like a second nature to him. There is no fencing club at their school but surely Peter must have some sort of training. Nick can see his steadily accelerating breathing from the exertion. Two swift steps forward, slash, slash, a half step back, swing to the side, up, vertical down, then - lightning quick – he whirls around. Nick can barely suppress a startled gasp. The tip of the sword is only centimetres away from the neck of a certain Edmund Pevensie.

The brothers regard each other for a moment. Peter's arms are rigid, holding the sword steady despite his heaving shoulders. A smirk spreads over Edmund's lips.

“My, my, so the rumours are true,” he says, as he takes a step forward, causing the sword to dig lightly into his delicate throat. Immediately, Peter pulls back and relaxes into a normal pose.

“Of course you'd come here to gloat.”

“Please, I've had to hear that you, my own brother, are going to star in the next production of 'tights and tattle' from Oliver Seplinski, only the nosiest Nancy in school. I think I'm allowed a little bit of gloating.”

“I'm only doing it as a favour.”

“I know you're a goody-two-shoes, who loves to please everyone but not even you can be so idiotic.”

“Yeah, all right, got it, thanks.”

Peter seems genuinely hurt by his brother's mocking, which gives him a surprisingly soft touch, thinks Nick. Whoever gives a hoot what their younger siblings think of them?

Edmund chews on his lip, giving Peter's back a thoughtful stare.

“Fine, I'm sorry, okay?” He says, stepping next to Peter. “I was just surprised by your... unexpected theatrical inclinations.”

Peter searches his gaze for a moment longer before a tentative smile appears.

“It's honestly just a favour,” he insists, “I agreed before they'd try to persuade me in even more pathetic ways and there'd be no dignity left in them, at all.”

Wow, thanks a lot, Nick thinks grimly.

“Oh, how magnanimous of you,” Edmund laughs. “So, what's it about anyway?” he asks and pulls another sword out.

“Can't say really. It's like I get new lines every other day. Nick has to rewrite the script constantly because someone doesn't like their part and just wants it differently.”

“That Hemperton is a hairless ballsack,” Edmund proclaims blasé.

Peter snorts with laughter.

“It's true! He's got no convictions, if he had any self-respect he wouldn't let them trample over him like that. Tell me it's at least a comedy or a harrowing tale full of misfortunes that leaves everyone awfully cathartic.”

“It's a romance story,” Peter shrugs.

“No way!” Edmund turns on him with big eyes, he almost misses to catch the falling sword he had so graciously flipped into the air. “And you're the lead? Who do you have to slobber?”

“Ed!”

“It's Marcus Mulvey, isn't it? He was the female part last year, too and I've got twenty quid on whether or not he's gonna hump your leg before graduation. I always knew he has the hots for you.”

“He does not. And also, what?”

“He always stares at your ass when you walk by us in the hallways.”

“How would you know he does that?”

“Believe me, you'd notice too if the person you were just having a perfectly lovely chat with suddenly zooms off into another dimension because he's obviously fallen into the gravitational orbit that is your hypnotizing arse.”

For a moment Peter can only manage a blank stare, then he mutters to himself “By the Lion...” Which, what?

“It's no fun for me, either,” Edmund persists. “So it is him then?”

Peter shrugs. “We've rehearsed some lines together.” And then he actually blushes. Edmund's eyes narrow.

“I better call Mum, let her know to put out an extra plate on Christmas for your boyfriend.”

“Don't be ridiculous, Ed.”

“At least now I know why you've been avoiding me.”

“I haven't.”

“And it's fine, really. I suppose he's attractive. In a way.”

“Cut it out, will you?”

“And you're at that age. Naturally, you'd want some dainty thing like him as a boyfriend. Why spend time with me when-”

Suddenly, Peter is right in Edmund's face, gripping his biceps hard.

“It's not him I want! Ed, I want- !“

Peter cuts himself off. A pregnant silence holds everyone's breath. Nick isn't even entirely certain why the mood is so intense. Although, as a single child he probably underestimates the severity that rows between siblings can reach.

“All right,” Edmund laughs nervously, disentangling himself from Peter's grip. “I was just joking, you know.”

Peter rasps, composing himself. “Yeah, well, dinner's in half an hour. You should head back to commons.”

“Sure, _Dad,_ ” Edmund sneers but retreats quite urgently. Peter holsters the props, a weird tension lining his shoulders. He stands there for a moment longer, opening his palm and staring at the fingers that had gripped his brother so tightly a moment ago. Then he clenches them into a fist and strides off.

Nick remains for a moment longer, letting the interaction play back in his mind. Slowly, a grin spreads over his features.

“Alma, I think I found our second lead.”

 

“Edmund Pevensie?” Alan asks bewildered as Nick pushes him along to the cricket fields where said rascal was now supposed to have PE. “What on earth made you think of him? Nobody ever thinks of him. In fact, I had completely forgotten Peter even had a brother. Now, his sisters on the other hand...”

Foregoing that remark with an eye roll, Nick picks back up, “He's the perfect solution. All the lower classes admire Peter so much that they freeze and fumble in his presence. And none of the seniors or Peter's friends have even a smidgeon of talent, artistically speaking or... otherwise really. It's a dreadfully average year, no wonder people like Peter tend to stand out so much.”

“Sure, but how exactly did any of that lead you to Edmund?”

“He's known Peter all his life, impossible for him to behave awkward or inferior in his presence. Also I know for a fact that he's just as good with the sword as our darling Peter. He's the solution, I know it!”

“But he's such a shy, unremarkable lad...”

“Yeah, we'll see about that,” Nick mutters and pushes Alan steadily on. “There he is. Now, wave him over and offer him this incredible opportunity.”

 

“Fuck no,” Edmund says.

Alan's mouth is opening and closing like a gaping fish. Nick puts a sympathetic hand on his shoulder.

“Even if you've never thought of acting before, you might want to try it. Maybe you have a hidden knack for it.”

“No, I don't.”

“You could at least come to a rehearsal.”

“I'm good.”

“You'd get a mention on your report card. Or even a hand up in one of your weaker subjects.”

“My parents have long ago resigned themselves to my crippling mediocrity. Would be cruel to get their hopes up now.”

“Then do it for your brother!” Alan almost shouts as a clear last resort.

Edmund gives that a considering look.

“I'm sure Peter can handle himself.”

But Nick knows he got him on the hook. Now for the line and sinker...

“You know,” he says rather serious. “The other day your brother hung around after rehearsals and we got to talk-”

“Congratulations.”

Nick feels his jaw snap but he keeps going.

“And he's told me about how he misses spending time with his little brother and he wishes he could go back to another time where talking to you was so much easier.”

He feels Alan's bewildered stare but Nick focuses entirely on Edmund. His expression becomes less devil-may-care and his lips open slightly, their softness longing.

“So don't take this serious and go tell your friends how pathetic these stupid theatre nerds are” - Alan makes an indignant sound - “But please do us the favour and go have some fun with your brother.”

Edmund regards him closely for a moment, then he stretches and crosses his arms behind his head.

“What part would I be playing then?”

“Well, we wanted you for the other main role but that'd be Peter's love interest,” Alan starts awkwardly. “But of course we don't expect you to- with your own brother- we'll just have Nick here rewrite the whole thing a bit and turn it into an adventure of two friends or-”

“No,” Nick says tersely, 'hairless ballsack' ringing clearly in his ears. “There's no time to completely rework the plot. We're gonna stick with the original play. And besides,” now he turns his gaze fully onto Edmund, “It's just a joke and a bit of amusement for you anyway. And you and Peter are so close that pretending to be lovers isn't a big deal, right?”

Edmund reacts to the intense gaze with a narrower one. He knows he's being challenged, he just doesn't know why.

“Yeah, sure, whatever,” he shrugs then and turns away, back toward the cricket pitch.

“Rehearsals start tomorrow at four!” Alan shouts after him.

Edmund gives no indication that he's heard.

 

“Uhhhh,” Peter makes. “What are you doing here?”

“Did nobody tell you?” Alan chirps happily. “Our dear Edmund here will play the second lead!”

“No, he won't.”

Alan falters in his step. Edmund smirks like the Cheshire cat.

“No, yeah, he will actually,” Nick chimes in. “Volunteered practically.”

“What, you can be the only one embarrassing the family name?” Edmund quips.  
“Ed, please, these guys are serious about this whole thing. If you're just looking for an excuse to cause trouble go find yourself another project.”

“Now, now brother mine,” Edmund says and swaggers over to slump effortlessly into the chair opposite of Peter. “I can assure you I have only the utmost sincere designs on your virtue.”

Peter glares at his brother but keeps otherwise quiet. Alan shoots Nick a quick glance of crumbling enthusiasm. With a couple of strict rules and clear directions those two are going to make a splendid couple on stage. Don't lose heart now.

“Anyway~,” Alan continues, taking his own seat. “With all the to and fro, I thought today we'll do something of a table read, so we're all clear about the script and my vision on how to realize it.”

Edmund's face is calm but his eyes still betray his thoughts, which Nick could bet on sound something like 'pompous twat'.

He resolves to stay resolved.

“We're gonna put on a whole different play though, aren't we?” Peter asks.

“Au contraire,” Alan twinkles. “Nick and I decided to revert back to the play in its original form.”

“You're having a laugh,” Peter states. “It was a romance originally.”

“Precisely,” Alan grins.

Quickly, Peter looks each of them in the eyes. “That is my brother. My kid brother.”

“We're aware but-”

“Marcus can stand in for the slobbering if you care so bloody much!” Edmund whips out angrily.

“Marcus-?”

“I told you I don't care about-” Peter cuts himself off, his cheeks colouring in.

Again, Alan searches for Nick's gaze, who only shrugs and beckons him to go on.

“I'm sure we can find a way around the kissing part, I mean, let's just- the play!” He tries and shoves a copy to each of them.

“Right. The play,” Nick picks up, gingerly placing his fingers on the cover.

 

_There once was a young prince whose best friend was the cook's daughter. They were inseparable as children and getting thicker as thieves every year they grew up together. The prince's old father liked the girl but feared the heartbreak his son would ultimately suffer as he could never be allowed to marry a commoner. Inconsolable, he hatched a plan that nailed the cook for treason and exiled him for life. His son tried everything to prove his friend's father's innocence but it was futile. On the day of their shameful departure the King locked his son into his room, fuelling the sentiment of betrayal in more than one party._

_Years passed and the old King died without ever having reconciled with his son. The young prince ascended the throne, unmarried. Many suitors attended upon the young King but they, as all the royal household, were left disappointed. The young King could not forget his friend of time gone by._

_One day, as he was invited to his neighbour's castle for shooting season, the miraculous happened: Out on their horses a young man rode towards them. A couple of pheasants slung over their saddle, a crossbow over the shoulder. The King called him closer and introduced the man as a 'she', the head huntress. The young King recognized his friend at once but catching her gaze he saw no flicker of the same in her deep dark eyes. The young King decided then and there he would regain her favour whatever the cost. The next days he spend tirelessly trying to accost her but she remained elusive. In the end, he had to resort to asking the other hunters and stable hands about her habits. None of them could tell him much except that she was more distrusting than a wild horse and would never be caught if she did not wish so. Many more days passed and the young King was close to outstaying his welcome, when one sleepless night he finally found her. In a brightly lit training hall, she was exercising. Graceful, swift, deadly precise. The young King took up a blunt sword and offered to be a more challenging target. His friend of long ago had to be tempted and goaded but eventually she battered down on him with attacks and hurt confessions of her father's tragic fate and her own hardships. The young King's heart broke hearing those miseries. But the second he meant to comfort her she pushed him away and fled._

_Desolate, the young King had to return home. Weeks passed without any news or sightings, when suddenly an urgent messenger arrived, pleading for help. His friend's kingdom was under siege by a mighty enemy. The young King wasted no time equipping his army and saddling his own horse, his heart terror-stricken with thoughts of his friend._

_When they finally arrived they found a scene of fire and destruction. The enemy had hit quickly and viciously. The young King's army, led by himself, cleaved itself a path through the opponent's ranks. Once they came upon the actual field of battle, Chaos greeted them. In the turmoil of the fight it was almost impossible to tell friend from fiend. The young King charged on regardless, eyes and heart searching frantically. The enemy's strength was overwhelming and soon he found himself abandoning his search in favour of fending off counter attacks. Locked in a trial of strength with a gigantic General, it seemed the young King's fate was sealed, the final blow was swinging onto him when suddenly his form was shielded. His friend did short work of the opponent, then she turned around and extended a reconciling hand. The young King and his friend were reunited, once again they stood side by side. But the war waged on and for every enemy slain two more popped up. Exhausted and pushed into a corner, his friend came up with a risky plan. Worried but desperate the young King agreed._

_Together they managed to dispose of at least half the remaining fiends with the rest of them fleeing in horror. Triumphant, the young King roared, elated finding his friend's similar shining eyes across the field where they had been separated due to their cunning trick. The young King couldn't be happier or more exhausted but his face changed into a mask of unconcealed fear as he noticed the imminent danger. The bitter General, they thought they had slain, was about to let his sword haul down onto the huntress. The young King screamed her name in warning, his feet running by themselves. It was only thanks to her quick reflexes that she managed to escape the brunt of the swing. But the General was dying and had nothing left but a final wish for revenge, lending him a last surge of brute force. The young King hastened, hindered by the masses obstructing his feet and the panic that didn't let his eyes off of his friend. The unthinkable happened. The sword penetrated the soft flesh of his courageous friend. Naught but a silent gasp escaped her before she sank to the ground. The young King, too late to her aid, ferociously cut off the General's head before throwing his sword down, sinking to his knees and gathering his dear friend in his arms._

_They exchanged final words of forgiveness and redemption before the huntress' body slackened. In anguish, the young King bestowed a first and only kiss on his beloved's dead lips._

 

“Dead?” Peter asks, deeply afflicted.

“Beloved?” Edmund asks, deeply bored.

“Well, yeah,” Nick answers both questions unhelpfully.

“But why?” They say simultaneously, then exchange an irritated look as if that happens quite often to them. Ed adds, “When the hell did they fall in love? The whole time it was friend, friend, friend.”

Nick is about to answer but Peter is quicker. “He loved her the whole time, thought about her every day since they were apart.”

“But he had to wait until she died before telling her? Very classy.”

“He wanted to marry her! He wanted to tell her since the day he finally saw her again!” He argues and then turns on Nick. “So that's why I'm asking, why does she have to die?”

“Because it's dramatic and-”

“Badass,” Edmund chimes in.

“And,” Nick says again, giving Edmund a long-suffering glance. “It defies the audience's expectation. They will believe to the last second that we couldn't possibly kill her off so that will be a real shocker.”

Peter frowns unhappy.

“Well,” Alan says then,”If there are no more questions I'd say you two take the next two days to learn your lines and we'll reconvene on Thursday. With the training scene.”

Edmund immediately kicks off from the table and bolts, Peter glances after him with a troubled stare.

“It's not so bad, is it?” Alan asks him then. “Only one little kiss in the end.”

“Yeah,” Peter agrees absent-mindedly.

“If it had been up to Marcus the script would have the leads make out every ten lines,” he jokes but it falls mostly flat. Peter doesn't seem to listen and Nick is too interested in figuring out what may be going through the older Pevensie's head.

 

Thursday Nick runs late. His mother phoned him about graduation, telling him she's already shopping for a dress. His father is very proud and excited, showing off to all of his co-workers and golf mates and is working extra hard now so he'll be hundred percent able to be off work for it. None of those statements are true. This was purely the first in a catalogued series of phone calls that will happen in the next months, which will end with neither of them attending and her breaking the teary-eyed news to him: she and his father will get a divorce.

She'll shack up with that graduate painter she's had an affair with for the last 18 months. That, of course, she will omit.

At least, she's making an effort to let him down gently, step by step, so that he'd be able to see it coming, he supposes. He kicks the door to the auditorium open because his hands carry stacks of paper and because yeah, he is a bit sad actually. The bustling, noisy, controlled chaos of rehearsals will be just the thing to clear his head, except nobody is moving. Everyone's faces is turned towards the illuminated stage. Nick keeps walking, momentarily confused but then from the right side the two leads emerge, Edmund battering Peter with blows of his sword.

“You abandoned me! You were my best friend and I needed you!” Edmund roars, the ugly hurt of him striking out at Peter, who parries the strikes but looks as if he would rather let them lash his face.

“Because of you, my father- ! I hate you!” Two more vicious strikes rain down, which Peter barely meets.

Edmund is huffing, his shoulders heaving. Peter just looks heartbroken, helpless in it.

“Iris, please,” he outright whispers.

And Edmund looks defeated and small, as if he wishes nothing more but to climb into the palm of Peter's/Paul's hand and be pressed safely to his heart. But then the spine snaps the weakness away and Iris' rage wins out, she meets Paul's gaze head-on, gets right up in his face.

“Take your pleas and excuses back home to your father. I have no use for them and certainly none for you.”

Then she holsters the sword and strides past Paul.

Nick is seized by the wondrous dizziness of hearing his own written words brought to life for the first time, he feels the tingle in the tips of his fingers, itching for pen and paper. He sees Alan, sitting in the fourth row, the megaphone he doesn't need but insisted on having perched next to him, the assistant he needs but only abuses perched next to that and this must be a premiere because Alan is actually speechless, his face open in accepted grace as if Jesus himself had come down from the heavens to grant him a successful play after all. Nick kind of expects tears of joy to stream down his face in a second. To the side of the stage Joel and Evan paint the castle wall except they have been so gripped by the Pevensies' performance that Joel's dripping brush is held in mid air and he'll be annoyed once he looks down again to realize he'll have to do some serious damage control. There are Rob and Justin and Trevor, Henry, Harry, and Charles, who are all so diligent workers, who usually aren't bothered by rehearsals but whose faces are all now in different states of awe and rapture. And then there is Marcus, hidden between the curtains, his eyes glowering furiously while he gnaws and rips at his script, all the intensity of his jealousy directed towards the younger Pevensie.

“Wait,” Peter says, staying Edmund by the wrist. He searches Edmund's profile with puppy eyes but Edmund does not deign it with acknowledgement. But he also does not try to break free. “I will leave in the morning,” Peter begins and it's only now Nick realizes he's still acting, deviating, no, extending the script. “And before I go, I wish- I need to know, Iris. Please, are you happy?”

There's a ripple of emotions running through Edmund but they're too fast to catch. The rigidity of the arm Peter holds diminishes and unexpectedly his determined face grows soft.

“How could I be?” he asks. “I've waited for you so long and now I cannot bear to look at you.”

A hurt noise escapes Peter, his brows knitting in pain.

This time he lets her leave.

As soon as Edmund is off the stage people start applauding, single whistles erupt. The guys near Edmund clap him on the shoulder, praising him and telling him how impressed they are. Everyone else jumps in, talking eagerly to each other. Suddenly the excitement is back among their troupe, the all so crucial drive to labour hard together to have a good time they will look back to fondly.

Alan searches for Nick's gaze and gives him an admirable nod, the mood around them exploding jubilantly. Nick looks at Peter, who in the midst of it stands alone, the spotlight still frontal on him. His eyes are on his brother, calm and quietly proud. Then Edmund disentangles himself from the other boys and he catches Peter's expression, mirrors the smile.

Among all the cheerful chatter and building enthusiasm, the space connecting the brothers is a pole of pure tranquillity and deep understanding. Nick swallows.

 

The next week, through all of Saturday and Sunday, is marked by content satisfaction of scheduled progress. Edmund, as Peter, takes to each and every one of their scenes as well as Alan's elaborately misdirecting directions with sobriety and eagerness. However, the scenes they have together are a continuous marvel to behold. Not only do they come up with a breathtaking battle choreography but they also keep deviating from their lines, reacting to each other's spur of the moment quips and even accidents. It is all the more stupendous for the fact that they keep it so in character and their improvisations come so quick, so dry off the bat, everyone is too dazzled to notice mistakes or taken liberties. No matter how often they go through a scene it feels fresh and lively every time.

The bothers too, are undeniably joyful, they're always around one another, playing and teasing. More than once he watches Edmund jump onto Peter's back, demanding to be carried somewhere. Nick has the urge to clap himself on the shoulder; those are some happy brothers indeed.

All is well.

Until they arrive at the final scene. The death and kiss.

 

Everything that worked before suddenly jams. They are stiff, mumble and stumble through lines. Even when they keep strictly to Nick's words the scene just comes out wrong. Alan's directions get increasingly detailed in an effort to assist them, resulting in outright choreographed blinks and breathing patterns.

Nothing helps and although they stay overtime, the end result is deep-churned frustration. The next day, fresh-faced and well rested they immediately start where they left off. They go through it three times. The lines around Alan's face get ever grimmer, a vein pulsing foreboding in his temple.

“OUT! Everybody out!” He suddenly screams. The others, wide-eyed and startled, comply hesitatingly. Except for Nick, who's been sitting in Alma since rehearsals began and was probably forgotten up there. Alan focuses back on the brothers.

“Look here lads, whatever it is that's blocking you... figure it out! You have half an hour!” Then he too goes for the exit, mumbling, despite being allergic to caffeine, “I need a bloody quadruple shot of espresso.”

Suddenly alone and plunged into silence Peter and Edmund stand awkwardly around.

“This is stupid,” Edmund complains. He scuffs his shoes against the ground, his hands deep in his pockets.

“Yeah,” Peter agrees lamely, keeping his head down.

The tension of things unable to be said, is heavy, Nick scarcely dares to breathe. Edmund chances a glance at his older brother. Pensive, emphatically soft.

“Is this... so hard for you because of what happened with Jadis? Because I almost-”

“No!” Peter protests. A bit too quick perhaps but whatever the 'Jadis' situation was does seem to be something else he doesn't like to think about. “By Aslan, no.”

“Then it's-,” Edmund's cheeks fill in a startling red. “It's the kiss?”

Peter whips his head around in surprise. He hasn't expected his brother to broach this so bluntly it seems. But Edmund keeps his head resolutely down, his hair falling into his face.

“Because if it is then we might as well just do it now. Get it over with. Once done it won't be so awkward anymore,” he says, then quietly adds, “I think.”

Now it's Peter's turn to go a violent shade of pink.

“I-,” he gasps out, clearly overwhelmed he stares at Edmund, who finally looks up. Their eyes meet and Nick can see Edmund's throat working.

“Okay,” Peter agrees. “If you think it's a good idea.”

“No, I mean, it's just, you know,” Edmund fumbles. “Whatever. Are we gonna do this or not?”

Peter nods to himself, inhaling through his mouth and teeth. Steeling nerves, huh? Nick thinks gleefully. Acting like they've never kissed anyone before. Bloody preposterous, look at yourselves.

“How do you want to, I mean, where-?”

“Just come here.” And with that Edmund takes a decisive step towards Peter and hauls him in by the jumper.

A breathless gasp escapes Peter but his hands find quick purchase by Edmund's hips, their faces get so close, their noses brushing-

“I know I said half an hour but I actually got an appointment in- Oh,” Alan, confidently-oblivious, burst in in the possible worst moment, chasing the brothers apart like startled deer or possibly chickens, Nick thinks maliciously, catching himself mentally cussing Alan out like he's never known he could.

“I certainly did not mean to interrupt this uh- Well,” Alan offers a bit dumbfounded, his hands awkwardly swinging in front of him. “Anyhow, I already send everyone else off, just came back to let you know we're done for today. Sorry.”

“It's fine,” Peter says, lightly coughing to clear his voice. “Have fun with your appointment.”

“Oh, it's the dentist.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,...”

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph Alan just leave! Nick wants to scream, still spasmodically perched in Alma.

“Well, I'm on my way,” he sways on his feet. “See you guys tomorrow.”

“Bye,” Peter says, while Edmund only grunts something unintelligible.

Alan bumps his hands one last time together and then finally elects to sod off. Peter looks after him, a long sigh letting his fringe flutter on his forehead. Edmund steps over to where he had flung his back earlier.

“I'm fucking off as well then,” Edmund declares, although he keeps rummaging around with his back. Peter has every opportunity to stall him if he wants.

“All right, see you at dinner, I suppose.”

Edmund's frame goes rigid for a second. Angry perhaps, or just disappointed. But then he has his features schooled to neutral just as quick, slings his bag over one shoulder and scurries towards the steps down the stage. Nick lets out a silent but long gust of breath, the fear of accidentally being found spying, catching up with him now that the danger is basically over. Strangely, he still feels frustrated with how everything played out or rather was prevented from doing so. Bloody Alan.

“The kiss doesn't bother me,” Peter pushes out, just loud enough that it stops Edmund in his tracks.

“Pardon?”

“The kiss isn't what bothers me about that scene. I don't mind that we have to... It doesn't bother me.”

“Um,...” Slowly, Edmund retracts a few steps so he's back on stage with Peter. “Okay.”

“Right,” Peter says, blushing furiously again. “I just wanted... just so you know, you know?”

Edmund looks at him with the strangest expression, one hand holding his strap tightly.

“What is it then?” he asks, “That bothers you.”

For a second Peter looks extremely tormented.

“Time.”

“Time?”

“Running out, yeah.”

Edmund mulls this over for a moment.

“I'm not sure I follow. What does time running out have to do with-”

“I'm afraid of the point in my life where it will have been too late for me to have said the things I want to say.”

“Hm,” Edmund makes, his eyes turn a bit sad and he looks up at his brother, hopeful and almost pleading. “Then why don't you just say them?”

Peter holds his gaze.

“Do you want me to say them?”

“Are they for me?”

“Of course.”

Edmund's mouth opens, a shaky breath parting his lips.

“Then yes, I want you to say them.”

Peter's right hand forms into a fist. With alarming speed he begins walking, closes in on Edmund, who like frightened prey instinctively stumbles backwards.

Nick has to shift, adjust his position to keep watching them. Peter crowds Edmund against a pillar framing the stage. They're not touching. Yet. Just regarding each other, sharing breath.

Peter's face moves just an inch closer, Edmund counter mirroring him, opening up all his negative space for Peter to fill. Nick can see Peter's still clenched fist itching to hold onto something. A shirt maybe, or a neck, hair even. Edmund's eyes are drooping as he offers up his red, red lips.

“I don't think,” Peter says, very low and threatening, “that you could possibly have a clear idea of what it is you're asking of me.”

“Try me,” Edmund breathes back challengingly.

Nick can feel the breath stop in his lungs. Now Peter's hand finally moves forward, remaining a fist but landing right next to Edmund's head against the cold stone.

They are so close, so near to breaching a line Nick realizes they've been toeing a long while. It just takes one little push, one mustering of the heart, the courage for change.

Peter's hand slides from the pillar, he steps away, even his eyes leaving Edmund.

“This isn't a good idea,” he says then and Nick wants to throttle him, while Edmund looks as if he wants to do much, much worse.

His gaze is fury incarnate and his hand violent, where he stoops to re-shoulder his slipped off backpack.

“Agreeing to do any of this rubbish theatre shite was a bloody idiotic idea to begin with!” He yells. Finally storming off.

Peter has his back to him, head dropped, sighing in defeat.

Lights out. End scene.

 

Things regress dramatically from that point on. Though not in quality of overall performance or either of their 'professionalism'. Edmund isn't unnecessary pouty and Peter isn't worryingly reticent, they're pretty much the same but somehow the fire is... gone? There's nothing they could pinpoint that would explain this sudden shift but everyone started getting these occasional creeps of unease. The Pevensies got through each scene without a hitch, even the final one (though Peter elected to simply kiss Edmund's cheek), and you couldn't exactly accuse them of listlessness because they were absolutely on top of it and yet Alan is back in a state of frenetic hair removal by his own hands. Two weeks he holds out.

“Just what exactly is the matter? Huh? What happened that made the two of you suddenly so dull? Honestly?” he extends his open palms to them. “I mean, really, give me a hand here. What the bloody hell.”

Edmund just shrugs, while Peter at least gives an undertoned apology. Baffled, Alan continues to stare at them, then shakes his head resigned.

“Premiere is in one week. One. Week.”

Sitting a couple of rows behind their despairing director, Nick thinks of what to do.

 

This Friday they have a school wide sports festival, where all grades compete in various games against each other. Usually, the theatre group is exempted from participating but this year Alan ordered them all to go since he vaguely believed a bit of premium physical exertion could somehow screw everyone's head back on right and save his show. Nick has a different plan.

 

With the kick of his heel and the slyly acquired key, he locks the Pevensie brothers into the sports equipment shed.

Smugly, he listens to Peter rattle, kick, slam, and shout at the door for at least five minutes.

“Just give it up already,” Edmund complains. “Everyone's at lunch.”

They sure are, thinks Nick. He finetuned this scheme down to seconds in order to have each of them wander in there, in just the right amount of timed distance that they wouldn't know the other one was.

“I only don't understand how it could possible have fallen shut and be so damn jammed,” he rattles again.

“Probably a joke of one of your awesome friends.”

“Much more your style and that of your little gang of rascals.”

“Yeah because I'd love nothing more than to be stuck in here with you,” Edmund mumbles and Nick presses his ear very close to the air vent.

“I'm sorry I can't be someone else,” Peter quips.

“And I'm sorry I can't be Marcus.”

“Would you fucking stop with Marcus already?!”

Nick's eyebrows rise dramatically. Peter must be really upset for him to cuss so unabashedly.

“All right, jeez. Sensitive much?”

Then he hears a plop, Edmund must have slumped down onto something. For a long while there is no other noise except quiet breathing and the occasional sound of adjusting limbs.

“Listen,” Peter begins. “About the play. I know it's my fault that things... are the way they are,” - Edmund comments this with a scoff - ”but for the sake of the others, I would ask you to act mature and... let's just give them a great performance, all right?”

There is a long silence and Nick wishes he could see what sort of face Edmund makes, probably a mix of anger and disbelieve. Oh, if only Nick knew what else had happened between them.

“Fine with me,” he answers then, his voice a subdued hue of being quietly pissed off for a long time. “But do riddle me this: How _exactly_ is this your fault?”

It sounds like a trick question, which Peter apparently has no awareness of.

“I should have put a stop to this from the start but I... I basically encouraged you. Instead of being a responsible older brother I let things get out of hand. So much so that now you think-”

“I don't _think,”_ Edmund spits. “I know it.”

Peter lets out a tired breath.

“Edmund, I know how hard it is being surrounded by all these children and how lonely that can be. But the way we... we've been clinging to each other for compensation isn't healthy. It muddles with your head. And these feelings you think you have-”

“I love you!” Edmund declares. “I don't think I'm in love with you. I don't have illusions about who you are, about who we are. I can cope with the fact that we lost Narnia and I don't compensate for anything. It's just one simple fact: I love you.”

Peter breathes heavily through his nose.

“You did not trick me into loving you,” Edmund continues, his voice softer now, closer too. He must be walking towards Peter. “You didn't screw me up and-” There are a few retreating steps. Edmund must be touching him now, taking his hand maybe or cupping his cheek. ”You don't have to feel guilty for feeling the same.”

“We can't,” Peter's voice comes out shaky.

“What are you so afraid of, Pete?”

“You're too young.”

“No, I'm not.”

“You're practically a child.”

“No,” Edmund almost chuckles but his voice drops inappropriately. “I'm not.”

Nick's eyes are huge and his hands fist into his own shirt thinking they must be kissing! They're brothers, who are in love and also a bit delusional talking about places and people that don't exist and they're kissing! Romantically kissing!

Suddenly, there is a crash and loud noises.

“Fuck!” Peter shouts. “This can't- Stop it, Ed! You're wrong, this is not what I want and you- you're wrong about me!”

Startled, Nick reacts on instinct and slips down back to the ground, quickly unlocking the door. Wild animals should not be caged in during moments of unleashing tempers.

“You're a coward, Pete,” Edmund says, righting himself from wherever his brother must have thrown him against. Peter on the other hand is back at the door, practically ripping it open and, finding it possible to flee, he does just that.

“You're such a fucking coward!!!” Edmund yells after him.

Nick presses himself close to the wall, hoping not to be seen once Edmund is ready to walk away. Which might be a while. Nick hears him sniff, then curse some more, then muffled crying, which is interrupted by a frustrated howl before getting too hard to still.

Great one, Hemperton, Nick scolds himself, feeling Edmund's misery permeating the whole building and seeping into his own heart. So much for putting on your first successful play.

 

The week leading up to the premiere is characterized by excruciatingly brilliant rehearsals. Peter and Edmund are excellent, the old flame of chemistry between them seems reignited. As long as they are in character, anyway. It seems that they both put every emotion they can't let out or own up to in real life get out through Paul and Iris. It is beautiful and enthralling to watch, for sure. But it breaks Nick's heart, too.

 

Opening night is packed. Not only has the whole school been talking about it for weeks – thanks to the crew's unceasing bragging and recounting of the by now famous training scene – but honestly, as soon as it was official that Peter Pevensie would be the lead, the _sold out_ was a promised thing. The rumours and raised expectations of the brother's intensity and sheer mind-blowing vivacity on stage, coupled with the too-mental-to-be-true fact that they were playing lovers ensured that the play will be an event to be talked about aeons from now. Nick can already see himself in twenty years at a reunion, a little softer in the belly, grey slowly emerging at the temples of his still lush hair, a celebrated playwright. Surrounding him were his former schoolmates still vividly recounting this glittering spectacle of their youths, guessing what might have become of the two brothers. Strangely enough, he could not imagine Peter ever attending one of these. Half the charm of that boy was the air of mystery around him, something that set him naturally apart from the rest of them. His brother wouldn't deign to attend one of those parties for the life of him. He'd be like Peter, somewhere in the world unbeknownst to ordinary folk. Nick sighs. At least, he hopes, they would be together.

 

Alan enters the stage, introducing himself and heating up the atmosphere even further. With a little bow and a cocky smile the light change and the curtain opens, Alan jumps off the stage joining Nick to the right of it. Marcus, as the bard, sets the scene and then young Paul and Iris come running over the stage, having just nicked pastries from the kitchen. Giggling, they sit down on the left hand side of the stage, while on the right the King enters, looking at them from up on the castle, worrying about his son's future.

The audience gets unavoidably enthralled but Nick notices a good portion of them also whispering and pointing. He grins, they must be arguing whether or not it is actually Edmund Pevensie they see there. Nick can't fault them, he needed a double-take earlier, as well. Remarkable what make-up can achieve when applied by capable hands. Edmund, with his mischievous eyes and all too easily pouting mouth transformed into a petite, sweetly looking girl with a gleaming, deep expression of pure loveliness.

When their first actual dialogue comes up Nick observes Alan tear into a programme from nervousness. But the mood emanating from and created with the audience must affect the brothers too because their performance is entirely breathtaking. It's much more than any of the crew had allowed themselves to believe could happen. The attendees laugh and aww and ooh and some, especially the younger ones, can't help but scream during the final fight, trying to warn Paul and Iris of the danger by the hideously styled General.

Then, after almost two hours – break included – the final scene is upon them. Alan, instead of being reassured by what everyone has managed so far, is a goddamn wreck, which is probably understandable since the finale is the most important scene and also the only one which hadn't clicked right once during rehearsals. Nick takes a deep breath and turns his eyes back onto the stage.

Shifting seamlessly, the music takes on a very emotive, sad quality, the lights dim, illuminating Iris and Paul seemingly only by the moon and stars, far away from the fiery destruction of the burned battlefield around them. Nick sees people gripping their shirts or friend's hands in helpless anguish but then his gaze is reared in by Peter again, who presses Edmund to his heart, rocking uselessly back and forth, crying bitter tears over his dead friend and when Nick expects the sweet and sombre goodbye kiss to the cheek, Peter instead brings their lips together in the most heart-rending way. The audience gasps and Peter touches their foreheads together as he breathes out a last heartbroken, “Goodbye, my love.”

The curtain falls and the crowd, still a bit dazzled by all these uninvited and overwhelming emotions, gets up for an ear-splitting applause, they are hollering and whistling and making all kinds of noises in an attempt to somehow give voice to the event that had just upended their world in the last odd two hours. The crew members all gather by the curtains, eager and happy for the praise.

Nobody notices their leads still in the middle of the stage, still locked frozen in their scene, except that Edmund is mostly supporting his own weight again but their eyes don't stray from each other and then Peter says something Nick cannot hear and Edmund's eyes get so huge and his mouth is about to open but instead Peter kisses him again, quick and fierce, unmistakeable in its intent. Edmund grabs onto him more firmly and Nick, in a surprising surge of protectiveness staggers over to them, throwing their discarded swords at them to catch their attention.

“Brilliant, guys, just- brilliant.”

Startled, they of course jump apart, showing their backs to each other as they get up and Nick, too, has to keep from grinning at them too knowingly but he can't help it because for the rest of the night the brothers have only eyes for each other and they're so- so _happy_ it makes the breath going through Nick's lungs feel like clouds, too big for his chest but fluffy, oh so fluffy.

 

Two months later.

 

It's the day before graduation, three weeks before summer holidays start and since Alma died and Nick rescued her parts but had only one place to hide them – the attic – he now clambers up there. It's a dusty, unused space, secluded but awfully dim at times because there are literally only two windows, spanning opposite across. He greets Alma with a reverent touch and then settles down between her broken branches. It's the last bit of time he will ever spend with her, the last play he will finish with her help.

Before he gets a word down though, there are quick steps nearing. Instinctively, Nick crouches low. Not the janitor but Edmund Pevensie comes inside, not bothering to look around (who would be here anyway, right?) he puts a paper bag on an old table and gets out of his jacket and jumper quite hurriedly. Nick glimpses at him from between the leaves, making sure to keep his body low but he can't prevent the little noise as his feet scrape against some sort of discarded furniture. Edmund, busy with unbuttoning his shirt, stops, but looks back at the ajar-left door, seemingly straining his ears. Quickly enough, he gets back to undressing and Nick really doesn't want to think too hard about why he might be doing that when he sees just what Edmund pulls out of the bag; the girl's school uniform, they had used to take the measurements for Iris' costumes. He holds it up for a moment, inspecting it with a last hint of uncertainty, then huffing he lays it out on the table and goes to take off his shoes. Nick has to bite his own lips because Edmund gets out of his trousers and stands there effectively bare-naked. Except for a pair of white cotton girl panties. Good God. With a little fumbling he manages to get into the, let's face it once and for all, too short skirt and puts the shirt on too, only closing three buttons in the middle though, giving anyone easy access to his neck and chest, the lower half of the shirt he knots together so that his stomach and hipbones show.

Edmund barely manages to pull everything the way he intends when Peter opens the door carefully. He doesn't see Edmund right away but when he does, he stops and makes a noise, which prompts Edmund to turn around startled, the skirt dancing around his creamy thighs. The way Peter stares, quite unable to function in any way, reminds Nick of the expression he had worn the first time he'd seen Edmund in it and yeah, Nick suddenly really wishes he had just thrown Alma into a skip because there's no way he can get out of here unseen or unscarred.

“By the lion's mane, Ed, you-”

“Oh, don't bring him into this,” he postulates but there is a distinctive blush creeping over his features.

Peter grins sheepishly but finally meanders forward. Edmund's hands are balled to fists by his side, undoubtedly trying to fight the urge to cover himself. Then Peter is right in front of him, grabbing and pulling the skirt, that skimpy little thing, straight.

“Look at you,” he marvels. “Absolutely criminal. Outrageous.”

“Just say it's hot, you enormous tosser.”

Neither Peter nor Nick is fooled by Edmund's words, the way his cheeks are coloured in so brightly, his whole body seems to be thrumming, wishing to be touched and adored and simply loved.

Regardless, Peter humours him.

“It's hot,” he says. “Really fucking hot.” His fingers wander upward, gripping Edmund by the waist. His thumbs dig into the soft flesh and Edmund gasps. “And you're all for me.”

Nick catches an annoyed twitch in Edmund's eyebrow but any protestations are swallowed when Peter kisses him. Edmund releases a small whimper and his fists, which automatically find their way to Peter's neck, holding onto him and when Peter takes a step further in, really bringing their bodies together, Edmund's arms sling entirely over his shoulder and around his head. The kiss doesn't stay sweet long, moves swiftly into open-mouthed and dirty. Nick thinks it's about time to look away but finds he can't.

Peter's hand moves behind Edmund's waist trying to get under the cloth through the waistband but it sits too snugly and anyways much easier, as he seems to realize too, to just sweep in from under it. It is a skirt, after all, which means open access pretty much all the time. It gets bundled up where Peter reaches beneath it to get at his brother's ass and Nick sees the white panties flash for a second. Peter's hand gropes the cheek and then begins to rub along the crack, again and again. Edmund emits a whine and suddenly Peter ends the kiss, both his hands squeeze Edmund's cheeks hard enough to draw him up on his toes and toward Peter.

“What's this, huh? Are you wearing those damn panties again?”

It's a common occurrence? Nick wonders scandalized. Honestly, people are so, so wrong about shy Edmund Pevensie.

Instead of answering Edmund nuzzles against Peter's chin since he refuses to give up his mouth, he looks and sounds almost placating like he knows he's in trouble but also wants to be.

“I told you not to put them on anymore,” Peter admonishes. “You know how they drive me crazy.”

“'m sorry,” Edmund feigns, rubbing his nose along Peter's jaw. “Just like how they feel. How you can't keep your hands off me, when you know I'm wearing them.”

“You're gonna get us in so much trouble one of these days,” Peter sighs but finally releases Edmund's buttocks from his punishing grip and holds him around the middle now, initiating another round of slow kisses.

Edmund's hands get more restless, they streak across Peter's shoulders, down over his chest and press against his abdomen until resettling against his tie, blindly loosening it. A dirty grin of Peter interrupts them, he holds Edmund an arm length's away.

“So what? You summoned me all the way up here just to get me hot and bothered? I'm skipping class right now.”

“It's not like there's actually anything they could still teach you about politics...” Edmund says with a sneer, still fingering Peter's tie. “And anyway, do you honestly think I'd doll myself up like this just to be a tease? You're leaving me behind tomorrow, two more miserable years at this school. All on my lonesome self. I thought we ought to make one last _impressive_ memory.”

“Up here, yeah?”

“Perfect place for me to hide whenever I feel especially abandoned and wish to wallow in some memories.”

“Ah, I see now. This is all about you again, isn't it? This has nothing to do with sending me off with a _bang._ You just need to get roughed up a bit, don't you, pet?”

With that Peter hauls Edmund back in, rubbing their bodies together at crotch level. Edmund makes this high-pitched noise again, obviously revelling in being spoken to like that.

“Go on then, show me you've been a good girl. Show me you deserve to be taken care of.” In one swift move Peter disentangles them, taunting Edmund with a raised brow, which he meets with a pleading, squeezable face of perfect innocence. Still smirking, Peter shakes his head fondly at Edmund then he points to the table, where the dismissed paper bag still sits.

“Show me.”

With one last sweep of his lashes Edmund obediently walks over, lies his upper body on it and, with both hands, pulls the skirts up to his waist, giving both Peter and Nick a full view of that perk ass barely covered by the too tight panties.

“As I said,” Peter says with a smirk and saunters over. “Outrageous.” Then he lets a hand stroke over a cheek, watching it swell with his movements. Next thing he does is walk one finger along the white cotton until he snatches part of it and pulls it up. The panties slip inside the crack and must be pressing against Edmund's cock and balls, he mewls lewdly and his knees squirm. Peter chuckles at him but releases the garment, his finger goes back to running along the crack, pressing expertly against the place where Edmund's hole must be. Nick sees how it inches inside a bit, forcing the panties with it.

“You're still a bit loose from this morning,” Peter states. “But you're so dry, I hope you brought something with you, otherwise you'll only get my tongue inside.”

Animals! Nick thinks in horror. Filthy animals!

“No, in the- the bag, I have-,” Edmund utters shakily because Peter's other hand moved to stroke along the underside of his balls.

“Yeah, of course you would. You just want this too much, don't you?” Peter teases and steps right up behind Edmund, pressing his clothed but visibly erect cock against him, while he rummages around. He produces a tube of Nick knows not what, can yet vividly imagine its potential usefulness for unimaginable nastiness. Peter holds it up to determine what? That Edmund hasn't used it without him?

“Take these off, then,” he says almost conversationally, indicating the white cotton panties that are still nicely on display due to Edmund's continues upholding of the skirt. Edmund wrenches his head around a bit, seeking eye contact but Peter won't grant it so he diligently strips, carefully stepping out of it with one foot and then the other. Uncertain, he keeps it in his hand after until Peter, who's been occupied with rubbing the lube between his fingers, takes it from him, orders, “Get back in position,” and throws the bundled thing in reaching-distance on the desk. Edmund with his bare ass now indecently presented to his brother, skirt hems securely in his grip, lays his hot face against the table's cooler surface. He looks like he is absolutely ready for any further proceedings. Peter fondly smirks down at him, then kneads one cheek with his clean hand, ultimately parting him conveniently and dear God Nick can see _everything._ Two fingers he inserts immediately, at least up to the first knuckle when Edmund makes a chocked-off breathless gasp. Maybe he isn't as loose as Peter had thought. More likely though, that Peter just likes to tease and torture, if getting fingers shoved up your anus can in fact feel good, Nick is not convinced. He continues to slowly thrust them in and out, going a bit further in every time. There is a tremor going through Edmund's thighs and Nick only notices now that he's up on tip-toes, pushing his ass really towards his brother without actually moving it. Peter saw it too, though, reverently he strokes along the quivering muscle.

“It's okay,” he says, “You can move.”

In lieu of an answer Edmund only hums before gradually rocking back into Peter, who without Nick realizing, added a third finger. How even one of them fits, is an absolute mystery to him, even more dazzling though is the fact that that alone should be responsible for reducing a smart-mouthed little shit like Edmund Pevensie into such a whiny, shivering mess.

Now Peter retracts his fingers from Edmund's channel, causing him to inch back but ultimately still, as Peter wiped his hand on Edmund's round cheek.

“Fuck, I'm gonna ruin this tight, little ass of yours,” he promises and unzips. “Don't even need to ask if you want it, I can already tell, you've always been such a little slut for it. Always been rubbing against me, teasing me with your looks and your gorgeous little ass.”

“Peter,” Edmund whimpers, trying to look at him over his shoulder, gaze getting caught on where Peter strokes himself languidly.

“Don't worry, you're getting it soon enough.”

He steps up to Edmund's ass, lets his cock smack against the flesh, keeps rubbing the head along Edmund's crack. With one hand he reaches around and grasps for Edmund, who jolts at the sudden sensation.

“Told you,” Peter says, “Sopping wet.”

Then he brings his hand, smeared with Edmund's precum, back to his cock, mixes it with his own until it's all shiny and slick.

Finally, he lines up and with one precise, violent thrust he goes all in. Edmund keens, his upper body rearing up but Peter is quick, forces and holds him down with one hand, while he tries thrust after thrust. All hard but at slightly different angles. Then he finds the right spot, thrusts quickly, eagerly a couple of times before reaching for the abandoned panties and shoving them under Edmund.

“You'll need those,” Peter murmurs into his ear. Edmund snatches them instantly, grateful to have something other to rub up against than the rough desk.

As Peter outright threatened he really picks up speed, slamming mercilessly into Edmund's soft and pliant body. There are a lot of hurt noises coming out of Edmund, interspersed with moans from Peter and these shameful smacks of their sweaty flesh. Peter's pace is so ruthless, his grip on Edmund's hips so unforgiving, in order to withstand this onslaught Edmund lets go of the panties, his hands scrambling and searching for purchase along the table's edges. And Christ, Peter's cock must be such a fucking steel rod because Edmund starts biting his own arm just so he'll stop making noise. But Peter won't even let him have that. He yanks Edmund up by the hair, takes the panties back in his hand and presses them against Edmund's leaking, bouncing dick.

“Come on, take it,” Peter moans. “Give in.” Like it's a fucking power struggle and not Edmund's complete undoing.

Because Edmund really can't stop the noises and pitiful confessions tumbling from his lips. And it's all so obscene, so goddamn _indecent_ with that hiked-up skirt and bitten-red lips, how Edmund has nothing to hold onto while Peter takes everything from him and- suddenly, Peter releases a guttural groan. He comes, inside sobbing Edmund, into that stretched-open hole of his. He keeps fucking him with slowing thrusts, while his breathing pattern expands but he also gradually loosens the grip he has on Edmund, releasing his dishevelled hair and his still hard, awfully neglected cock. Voluntarily, Edmund lies back down onto the table. Peter strokes over his shaking back and then traces the red rim with a finger where he slowly pulls out of his little brother.

“Fuck,” Peter says and Nick thinks, because there is still a string of white, pearly come connecting them and before he knows it, Peter kneels down. He holds Edmund's ass open, sucks and licks at the come as it emerges. Edmund recovered enough to jerk himself off and together with how Peter fondles his balls. Edmund too finds his release. One hand supporting him against the table he's threatening to slump against. A last hungry growl from Peter before he gets up and pulls the shaking Edmund into his arms. They're kissing again fervently and intensely and although they've just did what they did, they don't seem to be one bit sated by each other and it's crazy to Nick how loving and crazy intimate the whole thing really is. Peter still gropes Edmund everywhere, kissing him so deeply.

At some point they finally slow down, resting and breathing against each other. Edmund's eyes are closed, he must be completely fatigued but Peter gently cups his face and brings them together in a last lingering kiss.

“I'll go crazy without you,” he says and draws a tired, little smile from Edmund.

They get dressed relatively quickly, with Peter helping Edmund quite a bit but eventually they leave, with Edmund tucked under Peter's protecting arm.

 

Left behind is only Nick with a painful hard-on he can't possibly ignore any longer and the realization that he may finally be done with stories about Princes and their boring adventures.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I currently take no more prompts, for updates please consult pedmund.tumblr.com, thanks!


End file.
